


Antithesis of Cinderella

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Marauders' Era, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-24
Updated: 2005-12-18
Packaged: 2019-01-19 07:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12405513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: Lily Evans always seems bright, cheery, and effervescent, but sometimes appearances can be deceiving. Does James Potter have any hope in shattering the wall of protective ice around her heart? Maybe some Cinderella stories can happen after all...in odd random ways.





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

  
Author's notes: 1  


* * *

            There is no such thing as a Cinderella story.

            Sometimes I wish there were. Then maybe I could be Cinderella, and I would meet a charming, sweet, kind young man who loves me with every fiber of his being and live happily ever after.

            Even if Cinderellas were real, I could never be one.

            Why?

            Cinderellas are supposed to be beautiful girls who are overworked but don’t think anything about it. They’re supposed to be sweet, kind, loving, and extremely optimistic. They are the epitome of what the ideal girl is. That is why they can get the most ideal guy in the world.

            I’m nothing like that. Even I know I’m nothing like that. I’m not thin as a stick. My eyes aren’t a “piercing emerald green.”� My hair isn’t “ruby red falling down my back in soft waves.”� I’m not very sweet, I’m not overly kind, and I have to admit that I can get pretty pessimistic at times. I also know for a fact that I can get very selfish. If there was something that could ruin my reputation, I would do anything in my power to avoid it. If someone asked me to do something that could get me in trouble, I wouldn’t do it. I always thought of myself. Well, not always. I do sometimes go out of my way to do things for people-little things, like sending something through owl post for someone, picking up someone’s homework. Even so, those little things cannot really amount to all the things I don’t do. I guess that kind of includes other people’s feelings sometimes.

            I’m not a perfect person. End of story. I am actually Hogwart’s secret residential bookworm who tries to get by unnoticed. I hate talking to people. It takes so much energy to keep up a fake facade of cheeriness and kindness.

            Did I mention that I’m a complete fake?

            In public, I’m a happy, sweet, and thoughtful girl. I’m optimistic and bubbly and very loud. That description of my just makes my heart sink. I hate feeling so fake-so empty-but even I know that if this facade drops, I could kiss my social life goodbye.

            Oh wait. What social life? Ha, I forgot that I didn’t have one.

            I have acquaintances and “homework buddies.”� I have a few friends that I hang out with sometimes. That’s it, really. I don’t have anyone I could really talk to about just anything. 

            Perhaps I don’t let go of this mask I wear because I’m afraid. Of what? Even I don’t know, really. Maybe I’m afraid that people would look down on me if I became silent and morose. Maybe I’m afraid that I’ll be forgotten and just be another face in the crowd.

            That kind of makes me a hypocrite, doesn’t it? I want to go by unnoticed, yet I don’t want to get lost in the crowd of students.

            Maybe what I really want is just simple recognition that I exist and that I’m intelligent. Maybe what I really want is just to be loved.

            Yes, that’s it. I keep up the facade so maybe...maybe someone will somehow fall in love with me and whisk me away on a gleaming white horse to a kingdom far, far away.

            But that will never happen. I’m no Cinderella, and there’s no such person as Prince Charming.

xxx

_x Ten Years Ago x_

_“We are here to commemorate the death of Rosetta Evans...”�_

_The pastor droned on and on. He just wouldn’t stop. It was so emotionless, endless, and so...final. There is no other way to put it. Mum’s never coming back._

_Her face is so white and pale compared to what it was. She was so lively. So very lively to the point where she made me want to be lively. I could never imagine her dead. I still can’t see her dead now._

_Breathe, Mum. Please, start breathing. For me, Mummy? I promise I’ll pick up after myself, Mum. I promise I won’t pick fights with the other kids in the neighborhood, or eat my ice cream cone from the bottom up. I promise I won’t chew at the ends of my hair. I promise I promise I promise._

_I’m sorry I didn’t go and take a walk with you outside last week. Is that why you left me? Because you were mad?_

_I’m sorry, Mummy._

_Just please come back to me, Mummy. I need you._

_You are everything to me._

xxx

            Dad met someone at Mum’s funeral reception. Her name was Nicolette White. I will always remember the first time I saw her, just like how I would always remember my mother and the vibrant person she was.

            Nicolette was dressed in black like everyone else, but she stood out. Her naturally blond hair was pulled up in an elegant French twist and her eyes were a brilliant blue color. Dad was captivated immediately. I could see it, and I was disgusted. That woman looked like she belonged at a cocktail party, not at a funeral reception.

            She was beautiful, I’ll give her that much. She was sympathetic, kind, and everything a grieving man could ask for. Dad was tied around her finger the moment he met her.

            He sent me up to my room to change into something else, since my dress was muddy and filthy. I just couldn’t stand it anymore, sitting in those uncomfortable folding chairs watching a pastor butcher my mother’s memories with false words. 

            In short, I ran as far as my little stubby legs would take me.

            Those short, stubby, little legs propelled me under a weeping willow on the far side of the cemetery where I plopped down and cried. I cried for the mother I lost, for the unfairness of life, for the words falling out of the pastor’s mouth that dirtied my mother’s life. I cried for everything.

            It started raining after a while, but I didn’t care. Even to this day, I find the rain soothing. The heavens were crying with me that day, and I guess knowing that angels were bewailing my mother’s death made me feel better.

            I remember hearing footsteps approach me after a while, but they weren’t my father’s. Dad had this distinct sound when he walked, and I could always pick it out from the crowd. No, this one was soft, almost timid. I could tell from the short, quick steps that whoever it was would probably be around my age.

            “Hey,”� said the voice from behind me, “they’re looking for you.”�

            I looked up and did indeed see a bunch of people walking around calling my name. I didn’t say anything and put my head down on top of my drawn up knees again.

            “I don’t care,”� I said, still not looking at the boy. He didn’t say anything for a while. When Dad finally found me, he saw me on the ground, head buried in my knees, and the boy standing awkwardly behind me, not really knowing what to do or say.

            “Thank you for staying with her,”� I remember my dad saying.

            “It’s nothing,”� was the boy’s response. My father picked me up, dirt and all, and carried me back to the car to go home for the small reception we had set up earlier that morning. When I looked back to catch a glimpse of the boy who had stayed with me, all I saw were sad hazel eyes and a head full of messy, dark brown hair.

            When we got home, I had changed into a dark green dress my mother had made me a month before for my birthday. Her favorite color was the green; it was the color of life and growth. It suited her well.

            I saw Her when I came down the steps. She was talking to Dad, and he fell completely for her charms. I was upset at the sight, and hid behind the stair railings. They never noticed me. They were so lost in their conversation that I was but a mere forgotten memory.

            I had never felt so betrayed in my life when my father looked my way and turned back to talk to her, not even acknowledging my presence. I had never been the same from then on. I had finally discovered what the feeling of hate truly was.

xxx

            Dad married Nicolette half a year later. She and her daughter, Petunia, moved into our house soon afterwards. They seemed so nice at first, especially Petunia, who was only two years older than me. We were almost like a real family then, and it felt nice to have a sister, I suppose.

            Another funeral was held a year later, except instead of Mum lying motionless in the coffin, it was Dad. No one knew how he died; it was so sudden that no one expected it.

            Except for me.

            Dad was sick all the time after he married Nicolette. He’d throw up, have headaches and all that to the point where he just couldn’t get out of bed. Sometimes he would get better after we took him to the hospital, but then he would get sick again once he came home.

            I started pointing fingers at Nicolette. Dad was almost never sick before.

            Nicolette always made this banana pudding that Dad loved. He loved bananas because he and Mum had met under the banana trees in Hawaii one summer. I, unfortunately, was allergic to them. This seems like a very trifling detail, but now, looking back, I could smack myself for not seeing it. Nicolette ALWAYS made the pudding, but she herself and Petunia never ate it-ever. I thought it was weird, but then again, I was allergic so I thought they were allergic too.

            Life doesn’t work that way though. I was too trusting.

            The doctors at the hospital got suspicious of the whole ordeal. I mean, here was a man who had been healthy all his life, but he suddenly comes into the hospital at least twice a month. They ran every test they could think of, but they couldn’t find out why he was like the way he was.

            Finally, they ran a toxicity test on him, but it was too late. By the time the results came in from the lab, Dad was already dead. There was a high amount of arsenic in his body, and it could only take a cruel person with no conscience to poison him.

            Nicolette White.

            Arsenic was clear, odorless, and virtually undetectable. It was all in the banana pudding-and Dad always ate it. The doctors tried to press charges and get me out of her custody, but she was officially my stepmother and they couldn’t prove it was her.  

            My dad died because he fell under a woman’s charm.

            He always swore he would never do that-have a woman manipulate him to the point where he was so narrow-minded that he was as small as a burrowed mole.

            Ironic, isn’t it?

            Love is like suicide for the heart, and in this case, the body.

            I swore then that I would never fall in love.


	2. Facades

Chapter One

            I looked out the giant library windows. It was a nice day outside, and practically everyone except for me and the Slytherins was out there enjoying their last days at Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry. We just finished the DADA O.W.L., which was the last of the Ordinary Wizarding Level tests we had to take. I started spacing out a little bit, thinking of the summer to come. End of the year exams always made me feel like this. I felt so helpless-hopeless even. I didn’t want to go back home-if it could be called a home. Here, I was free; I was free of chores, beatings, and sarcastic remarks. I was free of ratty clothes and moth-eaten mattresses. Most of all, I was free of the cupboard under the stairs.

            I glanced back out the library windows at the four Marauders, as they called themselves, sitting together somewhat. Potter, who was kinda like the ringleader of the little group, was playing with what looks like a Snitch. He would let it go and catch it repetitively. Pettigrew, one of Potter’s cohorts, would applaud every so often. He was never stopped-ha-as if that arrogant prick would ever stop him from lavishing attention all over him.

            Potter was definitely something else. He was intelligent-I’ll give him that-but he had an ego the size of Jupiter and a mean streak that was fifty miles wide, if even that.

            Suddenly, I see Snape walking across the lawn, straight in Potter’s viewpoint. Lovely. There’s going to be a demonstration soon. Hmmm...ten sickles that someone’s blood will be spilt.

            Potter and Black (who was Potter’s best friend, I suppose) started walking toward Snape, just like I thought they would. They could never leave the poor guy alone, could they? I began to pack my things-someone has to be the level-headed prefect in situations like this. Merlin knows what Dumbledore was thinking when he appointed Lupin as the other Gryffindor prefect. Even I wasn’t stupid enough to look over the fact that Lupin would NEVER stand up against James and those random pranks of his.

            I looked back up after I made sure I had everything packed up neatly in my bag. Apparently, during the time when I wasn’t watching, Potter and taken Snape’s wand. This is going to get ugly, I just know it.

            Yeah. Potter just _impedimenta_ -ed his worst enemy. Lovely. Okay, let’s kick the evil-Evans act into gear. Potter’s going to get an earful after this.

            I marched outside, and the crowd that had gathered parted like the Red Sea. They all knew not to mess with Lily Evans when she was mad-especially when she was mad at James Potter. I got close enough to hear strands of the conversation...

            “How’d the exam go, Snivelly?”� asked Potter.

            “I was watching him,”� Black said, “his nose was touching the parchment. There’ll be great grease marks all over it. They won’t be able to read a word.”�

            The crowd laughed, but Snape started talking, or rather, gasping. “You – wait. You – wait...”�

            “Wait for what?”� asked Black. “What’re you going to do, Snivelly, wipe your nose on us?”�

            Snape began to curse and demonstrate that he knew quite a few...colorful...words. I was close enough now. Just another ten yards or so...

            “Wash out your mouth,”� I heard Potter say, “ _Scourgify_!”�

            “Leave him ALONE!”� I yelled from the edge of the lake, where I had come to. People began to move away and encircle us at the same time. What were they expecting-some kind of show?!

            Then again, what fight with Potter hadn’t turned into a show?

            “All right, Evans?”� he asked in a more mature, deeper tone of voice. Bah. As if I would fall for such a paltry trick. 

            “Leave him alone,”� I repeated, “What’s he done to you?”� 

            “Well...it’s more the fact that he _exists_ , if you know what I mean.”�

            I felt myself get infuriated. People like him were stupid, bullying toerags who picked on other people to stay powerful. It was like Nicolette; those people were all the same. They pick on those weaker than themselves and take advantage of the situation. Nicolette took advantage of my dad’s broken heart and killed him for the life insurance; Potter was taking advantage of Snape’s unpopularity and the fact that the whole school was willing to turn their backs on that particular Slytherin.

            The whole school, however, would not include me. Not this time.

            “You think you’re funny,”� I said coldly, listening to the whole crowd laugh at Potter’s words. “But you’re just an arrogant, bullying toerag, Potter. Leave him _alone_.”�

            “I will if you go out with me, Evans,”� he said quickly. “Go on...Go out with me, and I’ll never lay a wand on old Snivelly again.”�

            I noticed that the Impediment Jinx was beginning to wear off. Snape was inching for his wand, spitting out soapsuds and cursing under his breath. Ha. Potter never did do overly well in Charms anyway. Normal jinxes would have lasted twice as long when performed correctly. Instead of three minutes, the jinx should have lasted around six to seven-even longer if the elongation charm was placed on top of it. 

            “I wouldn’t go out with you if it was a choice between you and the giant squid,”� I spat. He had been trying to get me to go out with him for the past year...or two...or three...whatever. For a long time, I suppose. It was all a bet, from what I heard. Yup-as if “Mr. Popular”� would go for me, a secret bookworm and hater of his guts.

            “Bad luck, Prongs,”� said Black, turning back to where Snape lay. “OY!”�

            Too late. Snape had directed his wand straight at his royal prickness, and after a flash of light, a gash appeared on the side of Potter’s face, spatting his robes with blood. This seemed to infuriate him. I mean, it was kinda obvious when he just whirled around and strung Snape in the air upside-down, shedding light on the Slytherin’s pale legs and his...

            ...erm...

            ...pair of graying underpants.

            Hahahahahahahaha...ahem. Sorry.

            As amusing as it was, it was abuse. Snape is going to be scarred for life from this incident, I could tell. Who knows? Maybe one day, someone in the future will find out, and then suddenly, the great image of he-who-is-so-overly-egotistical will be shattered.

            “Let him down!”� I yelled. Potter and the rest of Hogwarts might find this amusing, but I certainly did not. I was a prefect, and I wasn’t about to go and turn a blind eye like all the other prefects on such a humiliating stunt.

            “Certainly.”�

            Snape fell into a crumpled heap on the ground and struggled to get up. Before he could raise his wand, however, Black performed another charm that made Snape fall over once again, stiff as a board.

            “LEAVE HIM ALONE!”� I screeched. I whipped out my wind. Mentally, I smirked as I saw Potter’s and Black’s faces. They were scared. They should be. I was, after all, the Queen of Charms.

            “Ah...Evans. Don’t make me hex you,”� Potter said nervously, eyeing my wand. He was bluffing. As if he would ever hex me. That would be the day Snape comes up to me saying he was sorry for all the times he called me a Mudblood. 

            “Take the curse off him, then!”�

            That stupid, messy-haired boy sighed deeply and said the countercurse. 

            “There you go. You’re lucky Evans was here, Snivellus-”�

            “I don’t need help from filthy little Mudbloods like her!”�

            I blinked. “Fine. I won’t bother in the future. And I’d wash your pants if I were you, _Snivellus_.”�

            I couldn’t resist. No one made fun of my blood. It was my parents’ blood that flowed through my veins. The blood that was decaying six feet underground as I stood there, arguing with pillocks. Snape had it coming anyway. What can I say? At least I tried. Dumbledore can’t accuse me now of not intervening.

            “Apologize to Evans!”� I faintly heard Potter roar at Snape, pointing his wand at his enemy’s throat.

            “I don’t want _you_ to make him apologize!”� I shouted, mind not really registering the fact that Potter, of all people, was sticking up for me. “You’re as bad as he is...”�

            “What?!”� he yelped. Once again, I smirked mentally. The things that would get him riled up, honestly. “I’d NEVER call you a – you-know-what!”�

            “Messing up your hair because you think it looks cool to look like you’ve just got off your broomstick, showing off with that stupid Snitch, walking down the corridors and hexing anyone who annoys you just because you can – I’m surprised your broomstick can get off the ground with that fat head on it. You make me SICK.”�

            I stalked off after that. People like Potter were all the same: stuck up, arrogant, selfish, unsympathetic, and never thinking of the consequences. I can’t stand people like that. He reminds me so much of Petunia that it makes me feel so...I can’t even describe it. They’re two-faced, the lot of them. Petty was so nice when Dad was still alive. We played together, pulled pranks together, and she even took care of me when I got hurt. Then Dad died, and that all changed. She hates me now and even more so when I got my letter to go to Hogwarts. 

            Potter’s two-faced too. He acts caring sometimes, but then you turn your back and BAM! He’s back to the arrogant prickhead he really is.

            In my seething, my feet had somehow taken me back to the Gryffindor Tower.

            “Strawberry shortcake,”� I said. The portrait opened with a “quite right, my dear.”�

            The common room was cozy, but red was everywhere. The couches were red, the curtains were red, the rugs were red...everything was red.

            And red was like blood.

            I suppose the color could symbolize a lot of other things too, like love, passion, lust, and whatnot, but to me, red will always be blood, and nothing else.

            Funny, isn’t it? Red was my favorite color before Mum died because it was so lively and rich. I loved the color red.

            Now, I hate it.

            I flopped down on one of the many couches in the room, savoring the silence of the usually noisy common room. Everyone was outside, probably watching Potter pull Snape’s pants down or something. I wonder, though, why people had friends to begin with.

            The way I see it, real friends don’t exist. Friends are idealized as people you could tell everything to, and they won’t go and tell the whole world about what you said. They’re supposed to be there whenever you needed help or just wanted someone to hang out with. Too bad this idealized vision of a friend doesn’t exist in this dirty world. It’s too pure-something that just can’t exist because if it did, it too would be stained with the sins of this world. 

            The only thing that can possibly be a part of this world is corruption and politics. That’s what life is, really. It’s all politics. For example, when you’re good at something, people automatically flock to you, wanting help and acting all pleasant and everything. It’s nice at the beginning, I suppose, but the second you fail or are not up to par, you might as well just kiss those “friends”� goodbye. 

            I watch the same cycle happen over and over again. Two people proclaiming that they’re each other’s best friend and a couple months later declaring each other their worst enemy. Ironic, no? That’s how it’s always been, and that’s probably how it’s always going to be.

            I get sick of reading novels and short stories that revolve around a group of “best friends”� who can’t do anything without each other. Such perfect relationships can’t exist-it defies the laws of humanity. Oh wait. What humanity? Ha, I forgot. I’m being a hypocrite. I don’t believe much in humanity either.

            The point is, I suppose, that people like to surround themselves with lies. Hell, I’M even surrounding myself in lies. I think about the person I am, and it makes me sick. I’m so fake, so cold, and so...I don’t even know what word I should be using to complete that train of thought.

            Sometimes, though, sometimes I wonder if such perfection really could exist...to have someone who can see behind this mask I wear...to have someone truly understand me and keep me safe. To have a friend I can tell anything to and not be able to worry about them blabbing. Is that what Potter has? Am I just too blind to see that what I think can’t exist really can exist?

            Has the wall I’ve built around me become so thick, cold, and concrete that not even I can peer over it?             

xxx

A/N: Hey, all! I’m sure you recognized that most of this was taken word-for-word from Rowling, so I would like to say right now that ANYTHING you recognize is not mine. I felt like writing it from a different perspective, that’s all. Okay. Yay for disclaimers. This really should go at the top. A big thank you to Telwyn Dubois and Akt5us for reviewing, and all those people who at least looked at this! <3

            

 

           


End file.
